1951

Will she be fine here on her own? Not a difficult question, definitely not when the great love of your life poses it. She stiffened. Was she sure she’ll be? Maybe. Did the lack of warmth in his words pierce her heart? Always. Holding the paintbrush with more force than necessary, enough to break it into half, she gave him a waned smile. The brush might bear the strain but her heart, it never quite did. She pointed at her canvas telling him this will keep her busy.

His relief was not reassuring. Once upon a time, it might have been. Now, it just made the reality of their marriage glaringly obvious. Not her well-being, but the prospect of getting away from her. She could see it in his eyes. The eyes she once used to read better than poetry books. What to do when the love is replaced by resignation? When the resentment glimpses through the well-molded seams? When courage isn’t his forte but it should be your choice? When you know it’s time to let go.

A chaste kiss on her forehead, a promise to write to her, a hint of a farewell, the reverberations of a heart breaking into pieces and his retreating back. Her gaze stayed and when it came back to her canvas, she couldn’t decide which side was the painting. Wasn’t she also a portrait? Static, subdued, silent. A devoted wife, a homemaker, prim and proper.
A portrait of matrimonial bliss.

Carved in the walls she was caged in, the cage she once called love but now couldn’t give any name to. A mirage she thought was the silver lining. The delusion she happily considered her reality.

The tremor in her hand and the paint splattered all over the incomplete artwork. Blotches. Not so beautiful now, was it?

Both portraits had the same fate.

*

2023

She couldn’t decide what grated on her nerves more, the gridlock or his incessant attempts at coming out of the sea of vehicles triumphant. Pretty farfetched. You could never win with the traffic in this city. Case closed.

She opened her mouth to tell him the same but that only made him narrow his eyes at her. His rebuke was harsh and his manner brash. Just one sentence but the subtlety or lack thereof couldn’t be misunderstood.

Her good-natured reminder died on her tongue, and an acrid taste took its place. She swallowed the disappointment and he grumbled, muttering about being stuck.

Literally or figuratively? In the traffic or their marriage? Keeps you guessing. She turned away from him, looking outside the window. The dark clouds loomed over them. Literally and figuratively. But she forgot all about his sour mood. The sky never looked this mysterious, you know very well what’s about to come but it still leaves you amazed.

The first drop of the rain and she smiled like a kid about to get her favorite candy. Another followed suit, one more, and in no time, the sky opened itself to them, giving and just giving.

Then she saw it, amidst the downpour and hazy cityscape, a figure running on the clouds, her, all smiles and childlike wonder, her lover right behind her, him, trying to look stern but a ghost of a smile gave him away. They stumbled, they laughed, they argued but they made up as well. The rain witnessed it all with a coy grin.

The spell broke with his less-than-gentle reminder that she was daydreaming once again but the vestiges of the vivid memory lingered. He didn’t need to know that, though. She assured him curtly that she wasn’t and he nodded, even though he found it hard to believe. The rain stayed but they disappeared and as she stared at him, her longing etched on her face, it dawned on her.

They had been lost for quite a while and there was no way to get them back.

*

1917

She had seen guns but had never faced the lethal end of one. She had known panic but not the one canoodling with death right before her. She had witnessed destruction but not where absolute annihilation was the inspiration.

Some firsts of your life are bound to be your lasts as well.

Someone shouted close to her to get down, whom? She couldn’t see amidst the dust and dread. Something whooshed past her and the cold realization that she was just a hairbreadth away from her end jolted her panic anew. There were cries for help and mercy, and the lazy drawls of contempt. The sobs constricted her throat. How could a peaceful procession to demand their rights go awry to this extent? They did nothing to warrant this retaliation.

Another bullet came their way. She crouched down, crying incessantly. Her hand on its own accord went protectively around the torso next to her, only to be smeared by the pool of blood.

No. No. Not her.

But her pleas were mere echoes as the light from her mother’s eyes extinguished.

That day, one of them was among the dead but both of them had died.

*

2023

Biting her nails whenever she got nervous or excited; an old habit, fervently admonished by her mother but she found it hard to get rid of it. One day. She promised for the umpteenth time. That’d make her mother happy and God! She could do with some joy right now. Especially, after the kind of week she had. Being a human rights activist was a challenge to both, her mother’s integrity and life. Her legal battles were getting distressing and alarming with every passing day but the woman refused to budge. She stood stalwart, a beacon of hope and courage, and even though it frightened her children, they were also proud of her.

Standing outside the court where her mother had just won the high-profile case, she made a mental note of asking her to take a week off work and other commitments. The respite was needed. Her mind was busy planning it all when the commotion around told her her mother was here. In no time, her beaming face with triumphant euphoria came into her view and both of them smiled at each other. It was over. They escaped the worst unscathed. They had won. 

Her mother ignored everyone else and took hurried steps toward the vehicle to reach her. The silent communication spoke volumes, no words were needed. Not here anyway. Soon. Once in the confines of their sweet home. Soon.

But life strikes the hardest in these infinitesimal soons.

No one knew where the bullet had come from but when it hit its intended, everything else lost its meaning, color, and validity.

There were shouts around her, hands grabbed at her, and tried hauling her away from the scene of destruction but how could she get away from her own catastrophe?

Her mother’s pale lifeless form and her own trembling hands, the stillness the doom left behind, and…nothing.

She hadn’t bit her nails when the worst of the worst hit her.

But whom would she tell that to now?

*

1983

The barricaded road and the armed men on the other side were enough to deter the less courageous but they didn’t know, opposite them, stood a force to be reckoned with. 

Squared shoulders, steely stance, and focused gaze; they didn’t flinch when the threat glared at them from afar and they wouldn’t be afraid if it came to their neck, breathing down to choke the life out of them.

They were here to demand and to get their rights, not to cower and bend to the will of anyone. Heads held high, fists clenched, the banners raised as if they were charging as a force and they were, a force on their own. No one was going to decide for them, govern their bodies, snatch away the autonomy that was theirs by birth and by right. 

Then they marched.

No weapons. None were required. 

*

2023

The channels were in a frenzy since the moment the news hit the world. Every passing second brought in an updated account of events. Everyone wanted to know and very few tried to block it out. The succession of the same headlines played its part in desensitizing the masses to the gruesome details. 

Another abduction. Another daughter of Eve was dehumanized and then thrown away as if she meant nothing more than an object. The nation mourned but just mourning wasn’t going to put an end to this seemingly endless suffering and fright.

It was time to be one and stand against it, once again, together and as a whole.

So, the next day, the streets saw it again. The same pattern, the same voice, the same demand for their rights.

Then they marched.

No weapons. None were required.

*

1671

The dance of madness. The courtiers and the commoners agreed with the name given to her descent into a frenzy, an unstoppable rage, the pouring emotions that flew with her, surrounded her, and matched her every step.

Scorned in love, broken in a sham of a marriage, and snatched the chance at motherly joy; the dance was her only outlet. She asked without asking, she cried without crying, and she protested against the shackles binding her to a fate she had no say in. 

She glided with the wind, but she raged a storm. She wiped her tears but she summoned the tornados. She held onto the hope but swirled around the pyre of her ashen dreams.

And then she looked in the mirrored walls of the palace, doubting her own sanity, searching for someone else in her place and within her. She was disappointed every time but she refused to surrender.

She fought it till she couldn’t. 

She endured it till she couldn’t.

*

2023

The moment she set foot on the stage, the meaning of everything else was lost. Every feeling inside became tangible, stood close to her, urging her to let it all out and she did. She poured her turmoil, spreading it everywhere she went, touching the hearts but getting nothing to mend hers.  

Her precise movements, her graceful glide, and her expressive eyes spoke volumes. She was otherworldly for only pain and hurt remained in this world. The desire to burn was extinguished, the resignation never came, and the peace was long overdue. 

When she took up the role of the infamous seventeenth-century royal court dancer, she hadn’t thought much of it. Another role to embody on the stage. But over the course of time, the tragedy of her life started mimicking the beauty from yesteryears. They had nothing in common. But their pain was now one and the same. Shunned by society, misunderstood, and shamed for loving what they devoted their lives to. She wasn’t brought to the cusp of madness but she could feel she was already there, so close and there she’ll meet the dancer, her other half, and both of them will mourn the shared pain together. 

Or maybe, through this dance, through this chance, they were already doing that?

Her feet moved with a renewed vigor, the fire and pain, so distinct yet so alike, the chains centuries old or alloyed recently, seen or unseen.

She fought it till she couldn’t.

She endured it till she couldn't.

*

1920

Kind, compassionate, accommodating. Adjectives everyone attributed to her. The lilt of a peaceful melody, she the friend of nature, she the whisper of winds, she the love of the azure sky.

She, who now sat close to the grave of all that, she who kept on looking for any semblance of life in the murky depths, she who tried her best but she who couldn’t find an ounce of what was lost.

Her, that was lost. Her. When a monster decided that she was unworthy of the sunshine and put her under the thrashing storm. The storm that collided with her frail form and spun her around, the reality flipped itself over and she also changed.

Metamorphosis of the doom. 

One man.  One act. And it changed the whole world. Condemned her heaven to hell. 

What should she try to piece together, the shreds of her apparel or the tatters of her soul? Which will take more time? Both she will never be able to sew anew.

The sky and the ground, all the same, a  grave above and a grave under. The whole world turned into a massive mausoleum. Her shrine. 

So she cried till she couldn’t.  The tears dried till they were just a streak of salt on her cheeks. The eyes glazed over and then ablaze. On fire.

Rebirth. 

She got up and walked to the tree. The shiny edge of the dagger shone under the bright sun. The old her would scream and ensure the distance of miles between her and the weapon. 

The new her picked it up as if her most prized possession. 

And she embarked on a journey. To avenge herself and to find closure.

Her old world was synonymous with peace but the new queendom had no place for it.  

*

2023

It will get better if you pretend it never happened. The mantra lost its meaning the moment she applied it to her current situation. No, it never gets better. Pretending only takes the pain up a notch. 

Then what to do? How to cope with something you endured all alone? How to make it known when the fingers will point at you only? When your timing, your clothing, your upbringing, and your existence will be questioned?

When it will be suggested that you asked for it, when the onus of your destruction will be on you only? You are the victim and the survivor but in the eyes of everyone, you’re the instigator as well. How to live with this pain? How do you cope with the realization that despite your suffering, you will be hated the most for it?

So many question marks and no full stops. Just a comma, that indicates the cycle continues and repeats itself. 

But for how long? And why?

It needs to end. The full stop. Now. 

The pen in her hand was a foreign object but with each passing second, it made a home engraved just for it. An extension of her.

A sign.

As she bent down to give way to her innermost thoughts on the paper, the chaos felt close to home. Peace didn’t even crack a smile as it slipped out of the door, closing it behind with a soft click.

*

Author's Note

Wrote this piece months back and I don't know why I never published it here. A small extension of Amanta, Elaf's play from Ishq Kinara.